


cut me down to size

by mostro



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Again ZERO character death, Although they do not really discuss his consent beforehand, Amputation, Auto-Cannibalism, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, M/M, Magical Realism, Married Life, Medically unnecessary amputation, No Character Death, Post Series, Progressive amputation, Sexualized Gore, Slice of Life, Vore, Will is consenting to this process, ha, hopelessly in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostro/pseuds/mostro
Summary: After four happy years of wedded bliss, Will’s husband starts eating him alive, piece by piece. Will enjoys it a lot more than he probably should.Written for Goretober.





	cut me down to size

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about various parts of Will’s body being consensually amputated and cannibalized by both himself and Hannibal. THERE IS NOT ALWAYS EXPLICIT DISCUSSION BEFORE THIS HAPPENS. This is not intended to be medically accurate (please see the magical realism tag). Hannibal is not ever intending to end Will’s life during this process, and the amputation stops at a certain point (and would stop, if Hannibal ever thought that it would actually endanger Wil’s life).

Will knows he shouldn’t let something so inconsequential change his life beyond recognition, but he had already fallen down that particular rabbit hole more than a decade ago, when he accidentally locked eyes with the Chesapeake Ripper across Jack Crawford’s cluttered office.

It starts out innocently enough. All they’re doing is enjoying yet another cozy movie night, curled up on the sofa together, him resting on Hannibal’s shoulder, Hannibal’s chin resting on the crown of his head and arm thrown over the back of the couch.

They’re making their way through streaming recommendations, and have already skipped through most of the Oscar shortlist for this year, but the summary of the next automatic selection scrolls across the screen and catches Will’s eye.

“An official Provence Film Festival selection,” he reads, eye brow raised. “‘_How far would you go past the brink of obsession to get what you most desire? _When a young man from a small English town falls in love with a newcomer who takes a job as caretaker for his ailing mother, things quickly spiral out of control. Disturbed by his thoughts of needing to keep her forever, the young man holds her captive and inflicts hair-raising violence on the poor girl until Stockholm Syndrome takes over and she has no choice but to fall in love with him. Beautifully shot, with strong lead actors, but with a bit too much metaphor for our taste. Three and a half out of five stars.’”

He snorts at the description, though this turns to a slow swallow a moment later, as he hears Hannibal’s heart rate pick up the slightest bit beneath his ear.

“This really is something you’d be interested in, isn’t it,” he says fondly, though he’s unsure if he’s just talking about the movie anymore, or the entire concept behind it.

“I told you it was your turn to choose the movie, darling,” Hannibal says, and reaches over to the coffee table to take a long pull from their shared lukewarm beer.

Feeling suddenly as if he could now down the entire bottle, Will licks his dry lips and croaks, “Gimme a sip,” humming contentedly as Hannibal makes it a point to hold the bottle for him, tipping it back the slightest bit so Will doesn’t choke.

“I meant just hand me the damn thing,” Will says, but he’s smiling, hand hovering over the remote.

Hannibal sets the beer down again, and kisses the fading scar along Will’s brow. It’s barely a whitish line on Will’s suntanned skin nowadays, but he still knows exactly where it is, because Hannibal is constantly touching it with his lips or with his hands, and Will stores each instant of contact in their shared Memory Palace, strengthening the foundations for the terrible possibility that they will ever be torn apart again.

“You know I will never miss an opportunity to hand feed you,” Hannibal says easily, Will shivering at how stirred the words make him, crossing his legs because sex is supposed to come after necking on the couch, after the last movie, and not a moment before.

Delayed gratification, and all that. Amplifies the reward.

“You can hand feed me all you want later,” he scoffs, pressing play on the remote. “After this…122 minute…thing.”

Dissatisfied with this answer, mouth flat, Hannibal raises a brow but doesn’t protest further, kicking his legs up onto the coffee table as Will tucks his own knees onto Hannibal’s lap.

-

_Why are you doing this to me_? the woman had screamed, when he’d held her down and taken her left foot.

_Because I love you_, he’d said, adoration in his eyes. _Don’t you see? I can’t have you leaving me, not after all we’ve been through together. _

-

Will isn’t the early riser of the two of them, but he finds himself blinking awake at dawn anyway, brought back to life by a scene from that awful film from last night, of all things.

It wasn’t even terribly realistic, low on blood and high on soulful gazing at one another over poorly thought out “surgical tools”, nothing compared to the things he’s really seen, and smelled, and touched, the aftermath of real monsters with agendas far more sinister than a lonely kid with an oppressive mother who needed somebody to love him.

Still. His skin tingled where Hannibal was touching him, pressed against his back, an arm thrown around his waist, his own hand clasped around Will’s left one. There’s a chilly breeze coming in from the window, but his ring is warm from the heat of his body, and the contrast of cool metal and warm skin makes Will wonder.

Hannibal had kept people alive when he took things from them, the way Gideon had used Freddie Lounds to keep Chilton breathing while he harvested his organs.

Chuckling to himself at the incongruous image of Hannibal holding his severed foot by the ankle like the boy in the film, as if dangling a dead rat by its tail, he reminds himself not to move too much while smothering his laughter into his pillow, lest he wake his sleeping husband.

The thought shouldn’t be funny, but it is.

No, Hannibal didn’t keep feet to cook. But he might be able to make something out of Will’s hands, would definitely be able to make something delicious out of his limbs.

The girl at the end of the film had perished from sepsis, but Hannibal wouldn’t be that lazy or that overeager with him, just lopping off parts without proper care.

Will could ask him to start with his fingers maybe; something manageable that he wouldn’t miss too much.

_Hmmm_. Maybe he’d rather Hannibal start from his feet up. After he took the first finger, he’d still have nine more, but he’d mourn the loss of dexterity as Hannibal went on, more than he’d miss an initial loss of mobility. He already spent a good deal of time in bed anyway, and he doubted Hannibal would object to carrying him around for a little while before they found him a suitable prosthetic.

But as abstractly appealing an idea as it was, sacrificing his fine motor control, his autonomy, or his _parts_ on a whim would be stupid at best, life-risking at worst. Wouldn’t it?

Grumbling in his sleep, Hannibal lets out a warm puff of breath that raises goosebumps on Will’s nape, and tightens his arm around Will’s middle, lacing their fingers together.

His grip is unusually strong, even when the action’s unconscious, and Will smiles at the bite of it as it crushes their fingers together, probably making an indent of his own wedding band against the skin of his ring finger.

_If I was gonna let him do it, I’d ask him to take that one last_, he thinks dreamily, with a feeling like he’s just resolved something important, although there’s no real dilemma to be had.

They’re just thoughts. _Everyone’s thought about killing someone. Everyone’s thought about it being done to them. _He merely happened to have the mental ability to think it through in a bit more detail than everyone else could.

Deciding that now is not the time to explore exactly how far he could take thoughts of his own dismemberment (and consumption, of course, because Hannibal wouldn’t let the edible parts of him go to waste), Will lets the thought drift away for retrieval at a later time, and snuggles into his husband’s arms, falling quickly back to sleep.

He wakes again at noon, and almost feels disappointed when he cannot remember his dreams.


End file.
